


Tip Me

by Kei_LS



Series: We Don't Work for Free [1]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And Everything That Implies, Bad Parenting, Biting, Daddy Kink, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Gay Sex, Grant's Crush on Deathstroke the Terminator vs Grant's Hate on Slade Wilson, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Incest, M/M, Mild Blood, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, POV Alternating, Parent/Child Incest, Slade Wilson's A+ Parenting, Slade disapproves of Grant's choices, Stripping, That's about as normal as it gets, also Consensual Groping, and more - Freeform, because grant is a mess, but it's really just slade and his kid, just so we're all clear on that, listen im trying to be clinical about this, which is actually an F-
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22264249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kei_LS/pseuds/Kei_LS
Summary: Grant's job as a male stripper was supposed to be easy. Uncomplicated. Fun. Slade showing up to his place of work is about as complicated and not fun as things got. Evidently, there's another lesson to be taught. And as always, Grant doesn't get a choice in the matter.
Relationships: Grant Wilson/Slade Wilson
Series: We Don't Work for Free [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782751
Comments: 15
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Delanoble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delanoble/gifts).



> This is a whole ass mess and I don't know what I'm doing, naturally. We're assuming Mr. Wilson didn't up and die but did still have a stint as Ravager. His rebellion is now taking the shape of being aggressively normal, by Wilson Family standards. Also forgive me everyone I don't know shit about stripping or dancing lmao let's all just go to a land of make-believe...

Working as a male stripper means, mostly, that Grant doesn’t really have to pay attention to much beyond the dance and the cheers. He needs to be adaptable, and he’s become highly aware of a great variety of people from handsy bachelorettes to the sweetest of bears. He doesn’t care what his clients look like, he mostly doesn’t even care who they are – most people want a good time at a strip club, not to beat on a worker. Sure, being on the guy side of things can get tricky – but he’s pretty sure that’s more the nature of the job and, occasionally, shitty management.

For the record, finding Slade Wilson waiting in the center seat of a VIP room for a private lap dance after being specifically requested was not actually someone Grant ‘mostly didn’t care about.’ He was, in fact, at the very top of his ‘Never Go There’ list. It was a short lost. Occupied by a grand total of six people, only five of which were even alive. His brain stalls, because he’d noticed the suit first – and the thick body that filled it out, the expensive shoes and the crystal glass held carelessly in long fingers.

Then he’d noticed the eye patch.

Then the bastard’s face.

“ _What_ are you doing here?”

He blames conditioning and an intimate knowledge of how quickly Slade can move for opening his mouth instead of turning on his heel and walking the fuck out. Of the room. Of his job. Of the city. Maybe the country, except he can hide better in the US than he can across its borders and ultimately it still wouldn’t matter.

Deathstroke found his targets. Always. It’s part of why Grant admires him so much. Would admire him – if he weren’t. Well.

“It’s not obvious?” Slade asks, eyebrow rising slowly. Grant grits his teeth, because the only thing worse than walking out on a VIP client that paid enough to make his manager sweat was storming over to punch his smug face in. He’d never get away with it, and he wasn’t even referring to his job.

“What are you doing _here_?” Grant asks, shifting emphasis and refusing to shift his foot back. Fifty-fifty odds on whether the door behind him would feel like a comforting reminder that there was an exit in reach or trapped because it was just him and Slade and four walls of poor sound proofing and heavy bass.

“Waiting for what I paid for,” Slade answers. It comes with heavy expectation and if Grant didn’t think he was so full of shit he might have been worried. “The clock’s ticking, and so far, I’m not impressed.”

“I’m not paid to impress you, jackass.” Grant sneers. Slade’s eyes narrow, just a fraction, but his grin is razor thin and sharp, fingers of the hand not holding his glass drumming on the arm of the chair once.

“Right now? You are,” he points out. “But if it’s too much for you, you can always quit.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s what this is about?” Grant scoffs, stalking forward. His father doesn’t move. He never does. Just tracks him with that single damning eye and looks all pleased with himself when Grant leans over him. “I told you to stay out of my business. I’m not quitting just because you don’t like what I do.”

“What I like has nothing to do with it,” Slade lies through his fucking teeth, smooth as silk. “But you shouldn’t waste time doing what you’re not good at, Grant. And I’m not convinced you’re good at this. It takes professional skill.”

“I _am_ a professional,” Grant hisses.

“Then prove it.” His eye gleams, the challenge clear. And the heavy soul-sucking expectation that Grant fold, that he fails, because he _doesn’t measure up_. His lips part and Grant already knows what he’s going to say, what he always says, “ _Impress me.”_

“Isn’t this too ‘nancy’ for you?”

“Not when they know what they’re doing,” Slade answers on a sigh, bored and sipping at his drink. Grant moves out of his way automatically, scowls when he realizes he’s done it, and bristles when Slade sighs again. Put upon. A show. “You should quit this. Before you continue to embarrass yourself.”

Hard lines. Grant had hard lines about this sort of thing. Not that he’d ever really thought he’d have to test them, because who the fuck in his family would track him down to his place of work for a goddamn lap dance.

His crazy goddamn father, apparently. Grant should stop underestimating the depths to which he’ll sink. Joey had said something about it, a few months ago, hadn’t he?

“You should learn some boundaries,” Grant snips back. Smirks, then, because he’s not quitting. It’s a mostly harmless job, and his only other goal has been crushed so pissing off his parents – both – like the touchy teen they insist on treating him? It’s about the only easy laugh he can get. “Let’s start with a simple one.”

Slade lowers his drink again, and like every time his father pays attention, he can feel the weight of Slade’s stare like a physical shroud over his shoulders and weighing him down. He reaches out, and for the first time in over ten years he lets himself touch Slade Wilson. Drag his fingers down slowly from his inner elbows to his wrists. Presses them down to the arms of his chair – large, cushioned, comfortable for the high ballers. Leans in and lets his breath skim over his father’s jaw, the stubble, to speak into his ear.

“Don’t touch,” Grant says softly. Slade’s pulse is steady under his fingers, of course it is, but he leans back slowly all the same. He can’t focus on the music. Not like this. Not with this man in front of him. But he can feel it. He can feel it, and that’s enough.

He won’t call it easy, to slip his hands down the mesh shirt he’s wearing. He doesn’t want to smack himself – slapping his thighs open or turning to do it to his ass like he would normally. He doesn’t want to give this man any part of his back, and he’s not sure Slade wouldn’t just…take him up on the invitation. His father has never been expressly patient with people, but he has a show. And if he must do it. If his father is going to _insist_ on staying.…well.

It’ll probably be like performing for a statue, honestly. Or maybe like his first few auditions – which were a lot more routine and dance based and far less sleazy than he’d expected, honestly. Thinking like that, this was almost funny. They were trial runs, really, and the bastard with the salt-grey hair and wannabe pirate accessory was his final judge.

_Impress me._

Yeah. He could do that.

He grins, and lets the bass thump through him, sinks into it a bit more and finally starts paying attention to what he’s hearing. It’s easy to hook his fingers up under his shirt, let his fingers skim and drag up his stomach and take it with. He’s not smooth, much as he wishes otherwise his own bad choices combined with the man in front of him sort of guaranteed he hadn’t stood a chance coming out with something. He feels his lip curl, turns the sneer into a mean grin and rolls his hips, follows the motion with the rest of his torso and slip off the shirt.

Scratching over his own chest is mindless habit, nipples hardening under blunt nails and rough, warm fingers. It never takes him much. The little pricks of pain are bright sparks of light in his mind amidst the dull heat of the room. His father is staring, still, at his face mostly. Placid. Not quite bored – they’d flicked down for a moment to catalog the thin mark he left on himself, the scars he hadn’t made, and all at once Grant knows exactly how to get him _interested._

Turning is the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he can reach behind himself, breathe in deep and let his arm bend – drag over the small of his back. Their eyes lock over his shoulder, and Grant lowers his first. Lets his hand skim down over his ass. Pitches his voice soft – because no matter what Slade will hear it but this way he’ll have to _listen_.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like what you left me with?”

He lets his hips sway, hugs himself in a moment of honest hesitation before bending down, arching his back and his ass and pretending he doesn’t know exactly who’s behind him. The clink of ice in his father’s glass is loud, but it’s not the sound of a belt buckle, and he can _handle this_. “It’s all you,” he breathes. “All of this is you.”

He shudders, eyes fluttering shut – fuck he’s not facing Slade anyway – and lets the knowledge wrap around them both. Every mark on his body really is Slade’s – directly or otherwise. The only things that lasted beyond what he’d gotten as a kid were from his reckless drive and idolization of Deathstroke the Terminator. What a joke, it all circled back to his father. His belt. His mom’s wooden spoon. His hand. Every clinical cut in his body, every lasting scar, the way his heart couldn’t even beat normally – all for _Slade._

He reaches up between his legs, bends up enough to squeeze at the back of his thighs and then at his ass. Claw down the tight leather, fingers dragging over the invisible seam. “Every single mark on me is yours, Daddy.”

 _“_ Grant-“

“ _Quiet!”_ He snaps. Turns sharply as his mind blitzes in different directions and then refocuses on Slade when he can see him. The triple beat of his heart settles almost immediately, and Slade’s single visible eye is dark. Angry. His hand was half-lifted, and Grant turned just in time for a hit to land on his lower stomach instead of his back or hip. If Slade had followed through with it. Instead his hand just hovers, frozen, and Grant takes his wrist. Squeezes, roughly, and watches Slade’s eye get impossibly darker, swimming with things Grant doesn’t have a name for but is sure will hurt. He leans forward, not fearless but unflinching, and guides Slade’s hand back to the armrest.

Is surprised his old man lets him. Licks his lips, and watches Slade’s eyes narrow on his mouth. Never did like it when he spoke out, did he.

“Be quiet,” Grant repeats softly. Eases his hold on Slade’s wrist and lets his fingers skim up under the sleeve a little. Leans into his space, lets his knee slip in between Slade’s and his free hand skim down Slade’s chest, over the nice shirt (silk?) and then away to his own pants. Pops the button and lets his lips skim over stubble this time. It’s not advised. Strongly discouraged, but Slade is the highest of payers. He would be, to make a point. It’s a mark against Grant if he _doesn’t_ get too handsy. “Quiet,” he whispers into Slade’s ear. Rests his cheek lightly against his father’s and feels his arm tense. Smirks, just a little, and presses another kiss to his cheek. “Boundaries, Daddy. You remember them?”

The arm of the chair creaks. Slade has let go of his glass, so Grant takes it, downs the rest of the godawful sharp liquid fire and tongues out an ice cube after. Bends over Slade to drop the cup onto the tray slightly behind his chair. His old man’s breath is hot against his stomach, sets a dangerous flutter through his gut, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“Good,” Grant purrs. Slade still looks pissed. Hungry to beat some goddamn shame into Grant like that’s ever worked in their history. Grant crawls onto the chair with him in retaliation, grinds himself down in Slade’s lap and almost screws it all up when he feels the hard press of a weapon push back. Slade knows he knows, reads it the second Grant’s thighs twitch, and takes advantage. Leans forward, up, and it’s Grant that sits on him, really. He doesn’t use his hands at all. Not even his mouth. He’s not smirking, there’s no smug smile, just that dark unfathomable stare.

“You want more marks?” Slade asks, blatantly disregarding his second rule while following the first.

“Why?” Grant asks sharply from nothing but nerves and the heat between them. “Am I asking for it?”

“Loudly,” Slade tells him. Grant chuckles, the sound a hiccup in his chest that rolls out softly. He can see Slade swallow, swears he can hear it, even though he’s not the one with the sharp senses. It’s nothing to slide his hand back, lightly curl his fingers around Slade’s and guide his hand up. Let it skim over the hot skin of Grant’s side, down the top of his thigh and then lead it back up when he kneels up and puts himself against Slade’s chest, head rolling back and to the side while Slade’s hand skims over the curve of his ass.

Settles. Squeezes.

There goes the first rule.

Probably Grant’s fault.

Whatever.

He’s too distracted to really think about it. Startled, he thinks. Maybe. Because – and this – this isn’t his fault. It can’t be. But Slade isn’t – it’s not a grope and slide, what he’s doing. He’s kept his hand there, Grant isn’t tugging it away, and he’s squeezing again. Rubbing at him, kneading slowly and encouraging a deeper roll of Grant’s hips. His cock is dangerously close to his father’s mouth, honestly, he can’t look away as he just barely avoids grinding against his father’s face.

His hand goes into Slade’s hair mostly for balance, the other still on Slade’s wrist, and he can only associate the rumble Slade makes as a growl. A warning, probably, to watch his fucking hand. The huff of his breath is hot, sliding up from the bulge between his legs to his lower stomach and the dip of his groin. He’d already undone the button. Slade dips his head forward, teases his mouth along the waistband of Grant’s pants. Won’t look away.

It’s suicidal.

So of course, Grant pulls his hair, forces his head back and lets himself slide down – all the way down – Slade’s body. Drops to the floor and feels the drag of Slade’s hand all the way up his back to settle at his neck. He’d let go of his wrist to get a dangerous amount of space, and now somehow even that much distance he’s freezing. Distracted, again, because he’s eye level with his father’s spread legs and that’s not a weapon.

Not a typical weapon. Metaphorical, maybe. Then again: Deathstroke.

_Fuck._

His own whine is involuntary – more a result of the reflexive thought than actual intent. Years of obsession with the Terminator doesn’t just go away, even if it’s now triply complicated by the man behind the mask. He got the Terminator hard. Maybe. Probably?

“Keep going.”

Right. Grant shudders, rolls up to his knees and then rolls his pants partway down his thighs before he realizes he’s following a command. An order. Slade’s order. He does let his lip curl then, a hint of a sneer, and Slade smirks back. Hums light approval and squeezes the back of his neck just to drive home who gets to run this show and lets him go.

He thinks he felt Slade’s thumb sliding back and forth at the base of his skull. He’s pretty sure it didn’t happen. It wouldn’t make sense, and it was too gentle besides. He ignores it, even though his spine tingles now, and focuses on slipping out of the pants. The thong was black, with a line of orange lace, and aside from being extremely uncomfortable this _wasn’t_ Grant’s fault.

He doubts Slade will _care_. The man already looks like he’s going to laugh. His fingers dance over Grant’s hip, and Grant hadn’t realized he was hard until just that moment – which is extremely unfortunate. Timing wise.

“I’m giving you an F,” Grant growls, ignoring his own aching need and pre-empting a response by slipping behind the chair. Slade tenses, which is more than enough to make Grant grin on a good day. “As an audience member.” He lets one hand stay on Slade’s shoulder, trail along his collarbone and down. He’s not going for the neck, he doesn’t want his wrist broken, but he lets his fingers dance along scars and pockets of skin.

It’s strange. Absurd, that Slade is staying still at all, and Grant tries not to let it get to his head. Fails, as he pours a drink and watches Slade’s head tip back. His eye is shut, but he’s still smirking. Laughing.

“Do you ever fuck your clients?” Slade asks.

“That is extremely not your business,” Grant snorts. He damns himself though, draping himself over the back of the chair and nudging the drink into Slade’s hand. He takes it easily, and Grant’s breath hitches at the way he doesn’t even consider it. Like Grant couldn’t have drugged it. Or poisoned it.

More likely, like it wouldn’t matter even if he had.

“Who?”

“Joey,” Grant says sarcastically. Makes an irritated sound when Slade goes still again and pulls away. He’s not surprised when his arm is grabbed. He is surprised it doesn’t hurt.

“Joey,” Slade repeats.

“Could you be less ridiculous for five minutes? I didn’t fuck my little brother.”

“He wouldn’t turn you down.” Grant stares at him in disbelief. Slade stares back completely serious.

…Well. At least that helped the hard-on. Sort of. Slade tugs at his arm, impatient, and clicks his tongue. “Finish your routine.”

“No,” Grant says numbly. Blinks. Glares, and yanks his arm free. “No, you’re – no. We’re done. You broke the rules.” Slade’s eye narrows.

“Really.”

“Really. Hands off the dancers, asshole.”

“Going to kick me out?” Because who would fucking dare. Even without the money, no one was making him get up and _leave_ if he didn’t want to.

“I don’t care what you do. Show’s over and _I’m_ leaving.” Let him fuck some other sucker. Grant’s had more than enough family time for the year.

He doesn’t hesitate at the door.

More damning, he thinks, is that Slade doesn’t follow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated! Because lo and behold, predicting things is still not my strong suit. Also, Slade's POV - because I am nothing if not inconsistent.

The apartment is easy to get into. The door is locked. The window isn’t. It’s a shitty, rundown, one-bedroom hole and Slade is, frankly, surprised to find it has water that both runs and is clear. There’s not much walking space, and it’s not because of a mess like Slade half-expected. It’s just small. There are motels in better shape, Joey has penthouses to _spare_ , and this is how his oldest chose to live. Getting hands on with strangers in as few clothes as possible, without even any blood to show for it after.

 _Every single mark on me is yours_.

Slade shuts his eye, a dozen protests and excuses hovering on his tongue. A loud, possessive _yes_ condemning him just under those.

_Don’t touch._

As if that were the easy part. Seeing his claim painted on Grant’s skin, etched in from raw force. Hearing Grant admit so himself. He didn’t regret leaving his mark but…. Well. Grant, particularly, always needed to man up. Quit posturing and start taking responsibility for himself. Every time he opened his brazen mouth, it was to spout shit he didn’t understand. A child taking up too much room. Loud mouths died first, their bravado embarrassing at best and dangerous at worst. He’s aware Grant hates him. But he’s alive. And the only reason he isn’t thriving is because he refuses to.

It’s annoying. Knowing countless people have seen Slade’s lessons painted on Grant’s skin and hungered. He’d been lax with Slade. How much more did the other clients get away with? How far did Grant let them go? He can still feel it, Grant’s eyes bright and grin fierce, the light blush of color over his cheeks and nose when Slade allowed his control to slip and touched his boy properly.

Show him, just once, how thoroughly his body wasn’t meant for others.

He hadn’t expected Grant to really follow through with it, which might have been part of the problem. Not the first half, when Grant agreed to put on a show for him. Not the second half, when he left. Left the safety and privacy of their room for the hungry hands and eyes beyond the door. Every night. Multiple times a night. Faceless, nameless, and unworthy.

If he wouldn’t get properly rough with Slade, then anything could happen. Would happen, because Grant was always clumsy when it came to himself. It takes him fifteen minutes to conclude the place has no bugs or cameras or security of any kind save a scattering of weapons of varying quality. Not because it’s hard, but because Slade refuses to believe he has so _little_.

The closest thing Grant has to an armory is a duffel bag of alien tech he has no business having. Slade doesn’t even know if he can use it. It was under his bed.

For the moment, the sheer disbelief drowns out remembered arousal and rekindled fury both. Did he think that having some pathetic job meant he was _safe_ without any further effort on his part? Joey alone should have been lesson enough. And every year of silence from him afterward a reminder.

He holds the anger like a cloak, settles in near his original entrance after returning the abysmal amounts of weaponry and waits.

Grant is stubborn. And heavy handed when he wants his way. He has, without fail, always made Slade snap first if only to get the kid to shut up. But he’s never thought of Grant as stupid, at least not particularly so. The boy takes after his mother so much it grates, from her darker hair to her spiteful grudges that could burn long after the universe goes cold and dark and empty. Her wicked smile is buried deep in his sharp edges, and he likes to grandstand. He likes to talk.

There isn’t much of him in Grant at all. Not normally. They’re the most alike when Grant’s hurting. Unsociable, quiet, attentive with a plan always taking root right in the background. He can see the calculations run real time, because he knows where to look. Built that same habit himself under his own father’s fist. There might have been a better way to teach him, but where was the time?

Even when he has it, Grant is always so _difficult._

Tonight though. He inhales slowly and settles a little more firmly on his feet.

Grant’s pretty. Not classically, he’s a little too square, a bit too big, but he _is_ pretty. Pretty enough for that to be ignored, overlooked, if he’s gagged. The fingers of his hand twitch, hungry to close around the curve of Grant’s ass again. Slide down and squeeze the backs of his thighs just under his ass, spread his legs apart and grope back up.

He wears Slade’s colors when he works. He’s got Slade beaten into his skin.

And he still just doesn’t get it.

Slade waits for three hours before the door opens. He’s annoyed, greatly, and if he weren’t sure that Grant was genuinely oblivious, he’d be well on his way to angry about it.

He’s not sure when Grant notices he’s there – point to him. It’s a five second window though. Enough time to open the door, step inside and shut it firmly before he’s flicking his wrist and sending a knife directly for Slade’s throat. Quiet competency, even though Slade has no problem seeing it coming, no problem catching it, feeling its even balance and sending it back with brutal efficiency. His boy catches it with a click of his tongue and a flick of the lights, a gun Slade doubted he’d have in hand before he falters.

It’s a mistake.

Slade uses what he’s given, his own gun aimed and ready, finger off the trigger. Grant doesn’t seem to notice, pupils dilated and cheeks coloring slowly. He’s distracted, but that’s not really a surprise. Slade dressed for the occasion, after all.

The old suit isn’t as uncomfortable to wear as he’d thought it might be. A little brighter, maybe, and missing a lot of the obvious benefits the ikon suit offers, but he’s not here for a job. He’s here for family. And there’s a very specific look that the first Ravager responded to when it came to Deathstroke the Terminator.

The ikon suit wouldn’t cut it. And, true to form, this does.

Grant recovers. Of course, he does. But the damage is already done, he’s unbalanced and it’s Slade that’s going to steady him. He motions with his head, silently. Deliberately reaches back to his sword when Grant doesn’t move right away, and watches the grimace play out over his face. It’s an ugly look, honestly, all bared teeth and sharp angles, but Slade warms to it anyway.

Grant doesn’t have it in him to be pretty without some extra effort. Slade doesn’t mind.

“Don’t you think you’re pushing your luck?” Grant asks. He sets his gun on the small end table by the door, adds his keys and a watch to the bowl. Shrugs off his jacket. The mesh shirt is gone and replaced with a red tank top. His pants are ripped jeans. Slade wonders if he still has the underwear, the thin strip of fabric with Slade’s colors parting two perfect cheeks.

“No.” He motions down, uses his gun for it and watches Grant’s hands. The tell won’t be on his face. “The other weapons.” Two more knives. Four – he has smaller ones in his shoes which he kicks off afterwards. Digs brass knuckles out of his pocket that Slade might have dismissed if he weren’t _Grant_. The kid doesn’t know his own strength. Slade hasn’t figured out if that’s a deliberate choice or genuine ignorance, if he thinks he’s somehow the _normal_ one, but it’s stupid either way.

The only occupation worse than the one Grant chose would be a bouncer, honestly. He’d kill a drunkard on accident within the first week, or at least break a wall with one. Too unchecked. Undisciplined.

He pulls out his pockets, still sneering and then stalks forward like Slade can’t see his uncertainty on his face. It’s fine. He holsters his gun anyway. Draws his sword and approves of the way Grant draws short. He stands subconsciously at attention, legs apart, arms at his sides, waiting for Slade’s order.

“Good boy,” he praises, and lets the tip of his blade rest at the hollow of Grant’s throat before he can ruin the impression by speaking. If anything, Grant’s spine stiffens, uncertainly glimmering brightly in his eyes. It’s weakness, but he’s not paralyzed. Good enough, since Slade is the one holding the sword. He knows the uncertainty isn’t really from fear. Grant doesn’t know what he wants.

If he did, Slade would be having a much harder time.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

“Fuck you,” Grant answers. His attention wavers, eying Slade’s hand. His stance. He’s expecting impalement, probably, because his boy is a lot of exhausting things and dramatic tops the list. Slade flicks the sword down, cuts a thin line into his chest and splits the shirt in two. Raises it back up and crosses once – twice – cutting the shoulder straps free and letting his sword rest along the bottom of Grant’s chin.

The shirt falls off soundlessly. Slides down his boy’s frame in a caress and bares his chest and stomach to Slade all over again. There’s a lot to work with. Plenty to admire, between the muscle and work he clearly puts into himself. A lot to hate, as the scarring from HIVE reminds him of how much was taken from his firstborn. The serum that had tried to kill him. The trust they’d stripped away.

“Behind your back. I won’t repeat myself again.”

He tracks the shiver, keeps his sword level as he circles around Grant slowly. Grant’s slow to comply. It’s fine. He _complies_ , and for Grant that has always been the bigger battle. His arms fold slowly, breath hitched once, and he grips his forearms behind his back. Holds them the way Slade taught him to.

Joey was the artistic one. The songbird, the gentle sweetheart that still tries to hide all his softness by playing his mother’s game. Rose is the fighter. Vicious and determined and breakable because she holds more pride than sense.

This is his hunter. Always biding time, looking for his own kills, finding his own tracks. Racing the other hunters instead of staying out of their way. Blind to the reality that all it takes is a bad day to become the prey.

It’s going to be a bad day. He’s lucky that Slade’s the only other hunter. That Slade _ensures_ he’s the only other hunter. He could learn a few things from Rose and Addie. Taking out the competition is a necessary skill.

“What-“ Slade cuts his shoulder, lets his hand roll and follows the curve back, the line thin and sharp and shallow halfway across the back of his shoulder. Settles diagonally over his spine and steps in close, pleased when Grant’s breath doesn’t hitch.

He’s wearing his gloves, and he can’t feel as well as he’d like to as he skims his hand up Grant’s opposite side. Over the uncut shoulder just as the blood starts to well up in a bright red line, curl around his throat and settle under his jaw, over his Adam’s apple and against the pulse points there.

_Ba-ba-ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-ba-dum. Ba-ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-ba-ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-ba-ba-dum._

“Steady,” he chides. Grant’s heart was erratic normally, but he kept careful count. Felt the speedy beats settle into an uneven rhythm. Jumpy, but more predictable. Better. Breathing deeper. “On your knees.”

“Going to take my head?” Grant scoffs.

It’s a thought. Vivid and heady, Grant’s stubborn mouth open, acidic tongue put to gentle use around his cock until his boy chokes on it. Kneeling with his arms behind his back, fighting every guiding pull of Slade’s hand on his hair to choke himself on Slade because he’s so fucking stubborn. He smirks, lets a small sound of his appreciation escape as a rumble through his chest and feels Grant freeze at it. Just like in the room, on his lap, micro-seconds of hesitation.

He’s right to be wary. But Slade isn’t angry. Not at this.

“A poor choice of words,” he explains. Presses down with the hand on Grant’s throat and burns with approval when he drops. It leaves Slade’s palm on his cheek, and Grant breathing uneven in front of him, but he can reward it. Even delayed obedience is obedience.

And Billy says he has no patience.

Slade crouches down to join him, lets his sword hand slide back up and over Grant’s shoulder, embeds the blade into the wood right in front of him. The tip sinks down between Grant’s knees, the flat of the blade angled toward them. A sliver of their reflection on each side, distorted but obvious, and Grant _shudders_ for him.

There’s color back on his face. A blush rises on his cheeks and heat curls at his ears. His skin has broken out into small bumps, hair lifted. Lips bright and red and parted, a touch swollen – he’d been biting them. His nipples were hard again, and Slade kept a hold of his gaze while he let the hand that used to be on his sword press on one. Press in and draw a hiss between clenched teeth.

His shoulders twitch. There’s red dried already on his chest, his back is healing from the shallow cut too, but Slade pulls harshly. Feels the gasp and keeps Grant’s back against his chest, his boy’s arms trapped between them. _Be good_ , he thinks. Saying it out loud is a guarantee to make Grant remember to struggle in earnest, and it’s not what Slade wants. Not what he ever wants, from this one.

“I don’t care what you choose to do for a living,” he says. “But if you’re going to insist on this, then you’re going to be prepared for every risk of the job.”

“Like giving my perverted old man a lap dance?” Grant chokes. Slade ignores it.

“I’ll ask again. Do you ever fuck your clients? Do they ever fuck you?” If Grant wanted to be asinine about it, then Slade would drag specifics out of him.

His son wasn’t classically pretty. He’d never be without work, that’s true. But he lets his hand ghost down, forces Grant’s chin up and drags him by the neck until he’s kneeling high, head back against Slade’s shoulder and chest pushed out, Slade’s fingers dipping into the waistband of Grant’s jeans. It’s easy to tug his jeans open, let his hand slip further down and tug Grant free of the confines of his underwear (not the thong, and Slade’s a touch annoyed that these are plain) in a rough hand.

Grant hisses again through his teeth, longer this time. Shakier, and his chest shudders with it. He’s not quite trembling, eyes screwed shut and trying to turn his head away – redirected back to the ceiling after Slade applies a little more force to his throat. He doesn’t quite whimper, but he jerks against Slade’s hold after the first dry stroke through the glove. It’s a forceful movement, and Slade presses his arms back more firmly against Grant’s front to keep control of him.

The kid falls still because he’s not paying attention. Slade’s most dangerous hold is at his neck, truthfully, but he could still unfold his arms. He has the enhanced strength to push Slade back. Get himself some room to move and then room to breathe. Like before, when he’d draped himself on Slade’s lap, every line of Grant’s body begged for him. To touch. To claim. To _ground_ him before he lost all semblance of control.

The only difference now is that he doesn’t have the luxury of pulling away. He turns his head again. This time it’s in, toward Slade’s neck, short puffs of strained breath forming wet heat against the fabric at Slade’s neck. This, Slade can allow. And Grant, true to every sharp instinct he refuses to listen to, leans into him the rest of the way. He tucks his face in against the armor, punishing himself for the implied weakness, and spreads his thighs a fraction wider.

It’s all Grant in the reflection, blindly caving to the control Slade offers him. Slade doesn’t stop stroking him, eases a little on the force when Grant bites his lip hard enough to bleed onto the suit and shakes in his hold. He’s whispering something, and Slade knows without hearing properly that the boy is repeating _I hate you_ in defense of his own actions.

Slade doesn’t care. Better that way, even if Grant can only seem to mean it ninety percent of the time and at a distance. The part of his face that Slade can see is bright red, his breaths louder than his words, arms and shoulders tense and fully tilted back into Slade.

He’s so fucking _beautiful_ when he doesn’t try.

The thought of the people that normally pay for the services Grant offers seeing him even close to this....

Slade growls. Knows Grant feels it through his entire body and shifts his grip on Grant’s neck to press against the side of his head. Pull him closer in and pump his cock a final time before curling his arm around his waist and pulling him impossibly close. The kid freezes, stops _breathing_ , and Slade growls again. Drags his fingers roughly through Grant’s hair and tugs at the short, silky strands. Can’t feel them. Can’t feel _him_.

“You’re _mine_ ,” he promises. Presses his hand over Grant’s mouth when he feels his lips part, muffling the protest and digging his fingers into Grant’s cheeks punishingly. “I don’t care what you do, but you’re damn well going to _remember_ that.”

Grant bites him. Hard. Hard enough to draw blood, which is annoying and then amusing and then annoying again when it surprises the kid more than it does Slade and he _lets up_. His grin feels vicious on his own face, he can see his own distorted reflection move with it under the mask. Hears Grant swallow.

“Should’ve kept it up,” Slade tells him. “Wolves don’t fear their fangs.”

He lets his bloodied hand close back around Grant’s throat. By the time he struggles, it’s already too late.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter count and tags updated -weak cheering in the distance-

Grant wakes with a sharp breath and something heavy across his chest. Strains against it with a grunt and feels jittery. Uneasy. The room is dark, a little fuzzy, but he makes himself focus. Sucks in a deep breath through his teeth despite the uncomfortable weight on top of him and blinks hard. There’s someone standing to his left, too close, and he twists to the right and feels his movement get arrested.

There’s something wrapped tightly around his arm. Arms. It cuts deeply into his skin and he’s pretty sure his fingers are numb. They might be blue, he can’t see them very well, but they tingle – so maybe not. One of the things on his chest is taken off, dropped to the ground, and he blinks a few times as the bedside lamp is flicked on.

He’s still in his apartment. The main lights had been turned off. He’s on his bed, and a familiar mask glares judgmentally up at him from his chest. He lets his attention track to his left reluctantly, trying to draw his legs up and feeling something pull at them too – thin and rough. Cord, maybe just straight wire wrapped in something barely more forgiving.

It’s probably the worst moment he could have caught Slade in. He’s got his belt open, is sliding it free, and Grant is abruptly aware of how much _nothing_ he can do to protect himself from the wide strip of leather. He’s only got his pants left, his eye dark when Grant flicks his gaze up nervously, and Grant’s going to hyperventilate right there. Maybe puke. If he chokes on it and dies, it’s still preferable to Slade having full access to his body and no one and nothing to come cry on him distractingly. Embarrassing, sure, but more acceptable.

Slade scoffs in disgust above him, and Grant stares in horror-addled confusion as the belt drops to the floor. He picks up his mask from Grant’s chest, smacks it against Grant’s head but not brutally. It doesn’t even hurt, really. A dull thud, like Joey smacking at him for saying something a little too unfiltered but with more unrestrained strength.

“Man up,” Slade says. Drops the mask to the floor too and puts a knee on the bed. His hand isn’t bandaged, but he couldn’t have been out long because Grant can still see the small indent of his teeth in Slade’s palm. He’s expecting to be slapped at least, but Slade’s hand is firm on his chest. “No point in panicking _now_ is there?”

It’s hot, Grant thinks dizzily. Staring blankly down while Slade’s hand drags lower and presses down on his stomach. He tugs on his arms again, twists a little and tips his head back to find a complicated series of ropes winding up both forearms and connected to the headboard of his bed. If he was given a day, he’d probably just gnaw his own arms off before he got even one of those knots free. In theory, he knows how they were done and come undone.

Slade’s binds aren’t just _undone_.

His legs are tied open, not together, and he only realizes he’s naked when Slade’s hand dips over his hip and down his thigh to the back of his knee and pushes up under it to test the little give he has. He only realizes it because he feels every inch of Slade’s callouses dragging over his skin, the little catches over scar tissue that Grant is in no way prepared for someone else to feel up. He doesn’t whimper. He _doesn’t_. But his eyes burn, just a little, before he blinks hard and bucks.

Slade huffs above him, smile thin and disapproving.

“Didn’t you say something about being a professional?”

“ _Dancer_!” Grant snaps, twisting his hips and managing roughly an inch. He strains anyway, grunting when Slade just pushes him straight and kneels too close on the bed. Glares as Slade climbs _over_ him- “What the fuck? What are you _doing_?”

“That isn’t dance,” Slade says instead of answering. Grant doesn’t know what’s happening. He’s not in pain – not in more pain, anyway. He can still feel his limbs, but Slade hasn’t started swinging. Is rubbing slow circles into his thighs and studying him. Drags his hands back up with blunt nails that send goosebumps and shivers all along Grant’s body.

This is…. He squirms again, but there’s nowhere to go – and even if he could, Slade’s above him. The only thing he can press into, and he screws his eyes shut when fingers circle and wander back down. He’s almost comforted by the loud, rough slap to his thigh. Swears he can feel it bruise just from that one strike.

“Look at me,” Slade orders. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t. Another slap, over the exact same spot, and it’s almost weirder how intimate it is to feel Slade’s actual hand against his skin. Worse to feel the small pool of heat low in his gut. He opens his eyes reluctantly on the third hit, louder than the rest, and hard enough to make his thigh burn with it. “If you’re going to whore yourself out the least you can do is focus up.”

“I’m not a whore,” Grant spits. Slade remains unconvinced. And this time when he moves his hand it’s – Grant shudders and tries to press down into the mattress. Dry. Rough. The glove hadn’t been great, but at least when Slade had touched him with it on there was the illusion of some sort of barrier. That’s stripped away now, and Grant wants to whine. Wants to cry and demand answers and fucking _throttle_ Slade.

Wants to press up into his palm because this isn’t really his thing. He’s not big on touching himself, on his own body, outside of work. Slade’s hand shouldn’t feel better than his own. Shouldn’t feel anything other than repulsive, but it’s solid and warm and the squeeze is _just_ this side of too much. It doesn’t take him long to respond, and he can already hear everything Slade has to say about _that_.

“You’re sure about that?” Slade asks dryly. His thumb is firm over the head of Grant’s cock, and Grant throbs in his palm, feels himself harden and fill out Slade’s in fingers. It’s uncomfortable, and painful, for _every_ reason, and he scrapes his teeth roughly over his lips to try and focus on anything other than the way heat builds too easily in his gut. He shouldn’t be this keyed up. Shouldn’t be this ready to – to just – Slade reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a small tube.

Thumbs open the cap and makes sure he has Grant’s attention as he pours.

It’s cold. Grant jumps as the lube lands on his cock, sucks in a breath and chokes on it when Slade smears his hand over it and pumps him firmly. Better. Oh, _oh_ , that was _so much better_. Grant doesn’t press into it – but it’s a near miss and Slade isn’t stopping. Slicks him up until his hand and Grant’s cock both are covered and wet. He can feel it trickle down, splatter a little over his thighs and tickle down his balls. It’s _irritating_ and distracting from the heat and slide of Slade’s hand, and he can’t breathe. He’s going to die from a hand job given to him by _Deathstroke the Terminator_.

He huffs a laugh, incredulous and disbelieving, and bares his teeth at Slade’s arched eyebrow.

“Is this h-how you take down your marks?” Grant demands. He hates the way his breath hitches, hates that he can feel his erratic heartbeat in his own throat, hates that more than anything he wants to spread his legs wider and whine his release.

“Are you a child?” Slade asks. There’s something strange about his tone. The exasperation is real, Grant is intimately aware of it, as is the annoyance. But under it, he thinks there’s a glimmer of something – lighter? Amusement, that’d make sense. Amused at Grant’s helplessness, at his persistent stupidity. He leans in close and this time when Grant breathes in, he can smell it – Slade’s drink of choice and his cologne and the sharp metallic rust of- “Grant. Eyes open.”

He jerks. Swallows thickly and stares right into Slade’s single blue eye. It’s so dark, and the intimate closeness is invasive. He’s hyperaware of it – how dark it is, the rustle of the sheets and Slade’s heat and his _hand_ still stroking and pumping with lazy inconsistency. He hadn’t realized he shut them. He feels like he can barely see Slade, and it’s awful that what strikes him more than how wrong Slade’s actions are is how long it took Grant to _realize_ it.

“Stop,” he says. Soft. Slade focuses on his lips again. Twists his wrist on the drag up and digs his thumb just under the head and Grant jerks up into him, heart in his throat and swallowing thickly. Feels teeth sink into his neck and shudders hard as arousal flares white-hot, licking up his spine and leaving him twitching, heavy, against Slade’s abruptly too-loose fist. “S-stop,” he says again, and grunts when Slade bites down harder.

Red-hot: pain. He feels his skin give and growls, so he doesn’t _whine_. The trickle of his blood on his neck is the same as the lube down his balls. Ticklish, a little sticky and cooling weirdly against skin he’s hyper-aware of. Slade’s hand ghosts lower, fingers curling around and behind and lifting – _squeezing_ gently and all at once Grant can’t breathe. There’s not enough air between them – in the room – on the planet.

He gasps so hard his chest hurts, bucks and then tries to press down into Slade’s hand and feels the scratch of Slade’s stubble when he growls back. It’s deeper, he can feel the sound from Slade’s chest go straight to his own. It vibrates straight to his core, and Grant’s pretty sure his dick tries to straighten up just from the sound. Slade’s teeth are rough against his jaw, and Grant blinks hard. Keeps his eyes wide open when Slade leans back a bit to look down at him.

“You’re so damn needy. Barely did anything and you’re already a mess,” Slade says. Grant doesn’t have the power to tell if it’s disgust or disappointment or something else – he can barely focus on the words. He shakes his head dizzily, eyes burning again.

“N-no… _no, s-stop…_ ”

“Stop?” Slade repeats, and this time his thumb presses firmly against the base of Grant’s cock. Makes him wheeze. “You don’t look like you want this to stop. The opposite, actually. Is _this_ what you wanted?” His lips are red with Grant’s blood, dark in the poor light, and Grant pulls on his arms again, drags his body up as much as he can and tosses his head as Slade’s hand continues. Reaches behind him. “Look at you. How many people have you done this for?”

How many people?

None. _God,_ none. No one has ever gotten under his skin, no one has had him so thoroughly cowed and pathetic as Slade Fucking Wilson. He shudders and shakes his head roughly. Shuts his eyes and deserves the bite to his chest. He pushes up into Slade’s mouth, bites down on his own lip and grunts at the hard pull to his hair. Slade rumbles above him, squeezes his jaw until Grant’s teeth part, and snaps, _“Eyes open, Grant.”_

He does. He does, shuddering on a cry, and it’s the only reason he sees Slade’s eye go from dark and angry and vicious to wide and surprised as he shoves his finger unceremoniously in. It’s wet, and hot, and rough, and Grant hadn’t thought to prepare for any of it. He clenches tightly around it, whimpers softly, and turns his head away as the surprise quickly gives way to blankness. Slade curls his fingers, deliberately, and Grant shudders and snaps his teeth at nothing. He’s burning up. He can’t see. He can’t-

“ _Breathe._ ”

He breathes in so hard he chokes on the air and spit, coughs roughly and whines again as Slade’s finger settles inside him a little easier – like he fucking belongs there or something. It’s vile. He’s awful. It feels _so good_ when he shifts his wrist and rubs down. When Slade speaks again it’s in a flat, dangerously conversational tone, “Been a while since you gave it up?”

“ _No_ ,” Grant says. This time he means it as an answer, not a plea.

Well. Maybe he’s pleading a little bit. He can see it. He can see Slade’s annoyance, feels the second finger shove in roughly with the first and it hurts – it hurts and he – _“No! Slade, I didn’t!_ ” he shakes his head roughly, feels the tears threaten to humiliate him. How long has it been since he _cried_ because of a beating Slade gave him? Slade hasn’t even struck him, and he feels like he’s going to fall apart just like the first time he took the belt.

Feels something in his chest crack, while his breath hitches dangerously. Pathetic. Can’t even take a few fingers pressing up in him? _Useless_.

Grant feels his head get tugged back into place, face and chest hot, still _hard_ enough to ache and drip. He didn’t realize Slade stopped until the man leans in close again, searching him, close enough they share the air between them. Slade seems to take all of it just from sheer proximity, and Grant can’t stop the way he tightens around Slade’s fingers, feel intimately how he fills Grant up.

“Explain yourself,” Slade says lowly. Tugs at Grant’s hair and then drags his fingers down through it. “Thoroughly.”

“I- I haven’t,” Grant repeats shakily. “I’m not – I don’t – no one’s done this, _god,_ S-slade. Please, I’m not – thi-this isn’t-“ he can feel himself start to whine. Tries to taper it down and fails when Slade’s fingers spread slowly, hand curved to his groin in an angle that was probably awkward for him. Grant doesn’t care, just presses into his slick palm as much as he can and shifts his hips helplessly.

“Never,” Slade prompts. Grant scrapes his teeth uneasily over his lower lip, and this time when Slade’s attention flickers he leans up into him. Whines softly at his lips even knowing that alone could get him smacked. He’d almost welcome it: a return to normalcy when Slade looks so strange. With Slade touching-

“Never,” Grant whispers sharply, groaning softly when his fingers twist and curl and press down again a little more firmly. Fizzles of more of that white-hot pain, something in him relaxing at every careful press and slow stroke. He feels Slade guide him back down into the bed. Moans at the rough scrape of his stubble and shakily parts his lips for Slade when lips press bruises into his own.

 _“Good_ ,” Slade growls. It doesn’t sound like praise, exactly. In fact, Grant would say there’s nothing but a dark possessiveness to that one word and the way the sentiment seems to sink into his skin followed by Slade’s bites. But it _feels_ like praise. Insidious, deceptive, so _rare_ he tells himself he doesn’t crave it.

Grant’s a goddamned liar.

Slade stays in close, puts Grant’s head where he wants it and bites and sucks marks into his neck. He can feel more bites – feel his skin give – distantly. More pressing is the hand working inside him, rough and fast and edging along the pain scale of things he can handle. He breathes when Slade reminds him to, sharp and jittery and far more interested in the way Slade sounds warmer by degrees. Like all he needs to not sound like an ass is to gnaw on Grant’s skin like it’s rawhide for a while.

He regrets mumbling the sentiment out loud, because Slade pulls away from him with a snort. Grant is too busy writhing on the bed to notice what he’s really doing, trying to clutch at his fingers as he feels him start to pull out – leaving him bare and colder and _hard_. Hard enough he might really gnaw on his arms just to get a little bit of relief.

“Wait,” Slade orders. Grant watches mutinously until he realizes the man’s pants are coming off, until he feels Slade’s cock heavy and thick and hard slide against his own. He doesn’t forget to breathe for that. He might be hyperventilating. He knows he’s writhing harder, trying to rut back while Slade grinds down against him and smirks against his collarbone. “Do you want to be able to move?” Slade asks his skin.

Grant whines his approval. Startles, skittish, at the feel of Slade chuckling against him. The rough scrape of his teeth before he squeezes Grant’s thighs. “Earn it. And stay still.”

Grant swallows. Stares. Moans, shakily, when Slade’s hand wraps around them both and tries not to press up into it despite how hard he is, how desperate. Slade doesn’t praise him again, watches for him to misstep – to fail – but it’s fine because Grant can barely think about it. Is so focused on _not moving_ that when Slade pulls back, angles Grant’s hips and presses against him all Grant does is grit his teeth.

Slade’s eye is still dark. Watchful. It doesn’t feel angry. His touch on Grant’s hip gentling just a moment.

“This will hurt.” What doesn’t? “Don’t forget to breathe for me, kid.”

And then Slade pushes in. Rough, fast, and all at once.

Slade steals his scream with a kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes far more effort than Slade expects to let Grant adjust. He’s tight – tight enough to _hurt_ and chase away the last of Slade’s doubts about Grant lying through his teeth to him. He’s Grant’s first, at least like this, and there’s something about that he can’t quite shake.

Grant bites him more than once, desperate and accidental and eventually on purpose until Slade finally breaks the kiss. Lets him gasp and moan raggedly. He’s still got tears, but Slade has been still. Has been keeping _Grant_ still. It’s enough. The kid can take punishment, a good amount of it, but this isn’t that. Not really.

Even if it were, Slade can feel him tremble. Every tremor in Grant’s body echoes against Slade’s skin until he’s leaning down again, one arm curled under Grant’s body, near cradling his head to tug it back. For once, he lets his kiss be gentle, his constant anger burned away in favor of having Grant docile in his hold. The kid pants against him, but Slade doesn’t dismiss the clumsy scattering of feather-light pressure along his cheek and chin. Turns his head into it to catch Grant’s mouth and lick deep in, feels his boy moan for him and tighten around his cock.

 _Fuck_ , Grant’s a tight fit. He loves it, even though it’s uncomfortable. Couldn’t have stopped himself much longer, not when it’s Grant under him. With his mother’s looks and Slade’s endurance and his own naivete still somehow glaringly obvious.

Stretched out under him had been hard enough. Sweat was starting to dampen his hair, and he was still breathing hard, but Slade let his free hand dance down Grant’s skin and wrap back around his cock. Pump Grant slowly and firmly and let his lips rest against the erratic, uneven pulse point at Grant’s neck. Someone could have had this. Could have stolen it from him.

Slade bites just under a bruise he’d already made, a rough short nip that has Grant moaning thickly all over again. Not just moaning.

 _“S-slade_ ,” Grant gasps, and Slade hums for him. Pulls back just enough to take a good look at Grant’s face. His lips are wet, shiny in the lamplight, dark and swollen between the bites and Slade’s own force. Not quite slack, but he was keeping his eyes open. Locked on Slade, brows knit, face red and eyes glassy – wet. “S-s..please, I…aah.” He shivers, again, and Slade tips his head down. Hungers, desperately, for this rare softness that has no business being in any of his spawn but somehow manages to infect all three.

“You’re doing well,” he concedes. Means it, because Grant hasn’t bucked or tried to writhe away from him. Is moving as little as he can allow himself, almost slack in his bonds, and aside from that first sweet cry he’s controlled himself. His eyes flutter every time Slade’s hand squeezes near the tip of his cock, but he snaps them open wide before they can shut properly. “Very well,” he murmurs, and for all that Grant doesn’t seem to really register it Slade can feel him tighten around Slade’s cock like he’s trying to milk it.

Stubborn. Like this, Slade doesn’t mind as much. Lets his lips brush lightly over Grant’s temple and reaches up to work at the knot keeping Grant’s arms above his head. Shifts his hips, carefully, back half an inch and then rolling back in and listening to the uneasy trill spill from Grant’s mouth. He takes his time, listens and watches Grant carefully while his body loosens, lets him figure out what works and what doesn’t until he’s more focused on the slow drag of Slade’s fingers than the cock filling him.

“Do you want to move?” He asks idly. Grant nods unsteadily, red-faced and sweet, chasing after him when he thinks Slade is moving too far away. It’s somewhere between that moment and tugging the last of the knot free so Grant’s arms can come down that he makes his decision. “Arms around me.”

There’s only one real way for Grant to do that, with his wrists still bound together. He lowers them over Slade’s head, lets them hang over Slade’s shoulders with a louder groan and predictably pushes himself up. Forward. It shifts Slade’s cock, and he lets himself lean back further, adjust so he can hold Grant in return and let the kid press and hide against his neck and chest.

Anyone else who sees Grant like this – sweet, needy, desperate – Slade is going to kill. Thoroughly.

Slade lets him hide for the moment. Another reward for moving into him instead of away and pulls his hips up. Twitches halfway in Grant before he thrusts deep. Not hard – not half as hard as he could – but satisfied anyway with the way Grant tenses and moans against his neck and grinds himself down as messily as he can.

 _“G-god – S-slade- aaah!!!”_ That cry is more pain-filled, Slade pulling out and slamming into him roughly. He feels Grant’s fingers twist, go into his hair and cling. Blunt nails scrabble at his neck and across his shoulders, but Slade barely pays any of it his attention. Braces himself on the mattress and does it again, pulling further out and slamming back in until he can feel Grant’s cock bounce between them. Grant cries his name again, keeps crying it, a pained mantra that Slade punishes with hard thrusts and bites over his shoulder and chest.

“Does it hurt?” Slade asks lowly. Watches his boy writhe and feels him twitch and throb and squeeze around Slade like it’s an instinct. Grant groans, but when their eyes lock again, he’s filled with heat. And after a moment, Grant rolls his hips, rocks himself down against Slade and tugs to try and make Slade push into him, go up high. This time, Slade figures he can oblige, muffling moans and sweet cries with his mouth and tasting Grant with every deep thrust.

True to form, Grant takes everything Slade gives him. Every hard thrust, every bite and kiss and demand, with a moan and defiant cry of his name and tears. It’s Slade that scratches down his thighs, leans up and back and drags Grant with him until he’s got his head tipped back and screaming out his pleasure at the shift. Sinking helplessly down on Slade’s cock. He doesn’t have to be told, Slade lets his hands drag over Grant’s back and memorizes every mark. Reaches lower and squeezes at his cheeks, spreads them, until Grant’s arms tighten tremulously over his shoulders and he’s laboriously pushing himself up. Dropping down unevenly but determinedly with shaky whines and drool slipping from the corner of his mouth.

 _“S-sla-aahhaah!”_ Slade snaps his hips up. Makes Grant bounce roughly on his lap and then shifts to kneel, the kid’s legs spread wide and balanced over his own. It’s messy and wet. All of it, but he thrusts again and Grant falls into him. Sobs against his neck and bounces. Over and over and over again until he’s kissing at Slade’s neck. Mouth wet and just as hot as inside, sucking roughly and worrying at a spot until he’s dislodged by Slade fucking up roughly or tugging at his head.

Slade doesn’t mind it, even though he can feel the marks form. They’ll disappear faster than the ones he’s leaving on Grant. He doesn’t mind considering them an apology. _“T-too much_ ,” Grant pants under his ear. Shudders, hard, and Slade turns his head quickly to drag Grant into another kiss. Shudders and forces his hips to move as he feels Grant tighten and jerk around him. He lets Grant lean back, look down shakily at the cum splattered between their bodies. Thick and white over his stomach and sliding down Grant’s dick, which doesn’t look like it’s softening.

“You feel good,” he says, while Grant is still busy staring dazedly down at himself. Rolls his hips up firmly into the tight painful heat of Grant’s body and feels him convulse, watches his eyes roll back and squeezes at his hips. He does. He _does_ , and Slade only slows himself because he doesn’t want to lose it this quickly. Reaches down and listens to Grant’s warbled protest when he strokes him again, slick with lube and hot from his own cum.

Grant adjusts to him in degrees. Mouth slack and curling sweetly into him, soft coos spilling from his throat until he was squirming on Slade’s lap again, nibbling restlessly in discomfort when Slade didn’t leave him alone.

“ _S-slade, p-please,_ ” Grant whimpers.

“What was that?” Slade says lowly. He rolls his hips again, grinds himself up and leans back. It’s heady, having Grant against his chest like this. His mewling is sweet, a sound that goes straight to Slade’s cock and makes him throb in the same moment it constricts his chest. He lets go of Grant’s dick, but it’s only so he can slip that hand around him and squeeze at his ass. Grant shudders, shifts and then moans in his ear. He can feel the strength in his boy, the way Grant tries to tense and pull away from him at the familiar game and just how poorly he fails while his legs tremble.

More tears. He can feel them, with the short sharp breaths and then sweet cries Grant makes for him. Slade drags his hand up, uses his nails and scratches deep lines up the length of Grant’s back and feels the way he reacts along every inch. It’s hell, not just letting go right then. Grant warms him perfectly, damn near like he was made for this. He doesn’t allow Grant to say his name again, twitching hard and nipping roughly behind Grant’s ear when he tries.

“You’re only a few steps removed from a rent boy,” Slade warns darkly. Snaps his hips up and feels Grant shift up against him and try to cling. “Is that what you want? A cock filling you up every night and keeping you like this? Chained on your back with your legs spread for the block?” Grant shakes his head but Slade can already see it. Feels the sharp possessive anger unfurl in his chest. Strangers sliding their hands all over his body, voice muffled as he’s used from both ends.

He blames that for the way he tugs Grant’s head back, shoves messy fingers into his mouth and lets Grant choke on them. Hooks down against his jaw until Grant is drooling down his palm, licking tentatively with glassy, dazed eyes until something clicks and he starts to suck. His tongue curls without reason, and he bites lightly at the digits to keep them when Slade presses down on his tongue. It’s a different kind of heat. Grant’s sucking might be messy, but it’s curious, and Slade can feel his control starting to slip.

“ _Uh-uhn..uhnnnn..mnn!”_ Grant shudders again – barely trying to make words and hollowing his cheeks. Brows knit, teeth dragging, looking less mutinous and more exhausted, trying to lift himself up again and sink down with a thick groan. He does it again when Slade drags his fingers out, leaves his mouth open when Slade traces over his lips and then smears saliva against his cheek. Inviting. Begging, for a kiss – to be filled.

“What do you call me?” He prompts lowly.

“S- _aaa-haaaah!”_ He cries out roughly when Slade lifts him, drops him down. Pushes into him and strikes home.

“Don’t make me hurt you, Grant,” he says softly, while Grant shudders and whimpers high in his throat. It’s more of a request, really, voice pitched low and lips gentle against his temple. “Who am I?” He can feel it – Grant’s struggle with himself, in the tension of his jaw where his chin is dropped back down to Slade’s shoulder. “What do you say?”

 _“Ngh…d-dad.._ ” Whisper-soft. Slade groans, deep in his chest, arm falling back around Grant’s waist and tightening to hold him. Reaches behind him and trails his cleaner hand along Grant’s trembling thigh and then further. “ _Dad_ ,” Grant whines again, twitching and shifting around him, massaging his cock while Slade stays buried deep and contorts him. _“P-please, please, Dad, I can’t – I – I-“_

It’s a bit of work to get his legs free – he’d ended up tightening them himself. Really, he only gets them free enough he can move Grant as he wants, and it doesn’t take very much physical prompting at all to get Grant’s legs wrapped around him. It’s enough.

He moves then, pushes Grant against the headboard of his bed and claims his mouth roughly mid-cry. Snaps his hips up and fucks into him properly. Doesn’t mind that Grant’s loud and moaning like a whore for him, _because_ of him, because every breath he gets Grant is pleading for him. Screaming out and wrapped around him. It doesn’t take much, not now. All he needs is Grant’s _dad-dad-d-daddy **please**!!!_ And the way Grant lets himself get fucked against the headboard, bouncing roughly against it with every sharp wet slap of his hips. The way he bites through his lip and draws blood. Grant’s eyes rolling back as he shudders. Convulses.

Comes again, over himself – a thinner stream of milky white. It’s that last that takes Slade, too. Feeling Grant’s heat become vice like, impossible, a second time. Pressing down all around him and begging to be filled.

“Ah-aah..- _oh_ ,” Grant chokes. Feels it all, as Slade fills him up, too blissed to do anything but take it while Slade slows. Fucks him through his own haze of heat and pleasure. Kid’s still wrapped around him, and Slade smacks his thigh loudly, lips brushing his cheek when he unhooks his ankles clumsily. Rolls and lets Grant stay with him, resting and straddling his lap while Slade softens inside of him. Stays buried deep and lets Grant’s head drop limply back to his shoulder.

“There you are,” Slade soothes. Grant twitches muzzily, and Slade waits him out. Drags his fingers down Grant’s spine and settles at the small of his back. Pulling out is… tricky. Not because it’s difficult, but because he doesn’t want to leave. Grant doesn’t seem to want it either, a soft and pitiful _‘dad’_ mumbled from his lips. He clutches weakly, walls twitching around him, and Slade gives in. Kisses him quiet as he pulls out all the way and presses Grant back down onto the bed.

There’s a blade under the pillow, and he slips Grant’s arms back over his head, cuts them free and rubs at the thick red lines he’d put on himself. His boy curls up slowly, rolls limply to his side, tear tracks on his face and hair spiked up, dark with sweat. He’s a mess – all up his thighs and lower stomach, and Slade notes with a bit of surprise there’s a dark handprint on the curve of his ass still from where Slade had grabbed him. He drags his finger over the mark slowly, listens to Grant hiss through his teeth and feels the heat still pouring from him.

The kid’s blissed out. Hums when prompted and barely coherent at that. It feels like trust, even if it’s born from exhaustion, because Grant should have the endurance to remain aware and awake through this if he didn’t. It’s enough given ground that Slade doesn’t have a problem with getting up. Getting a cloth and cleaning himself off quickly, kneeling onto the bed and taking a wet cloth to Grant’s skin. Rub circles slowly down his legs and over his chest and stomach. There’s dried blood on his neck and chin, and Slade wipes that away firmly.

Admires the fresh marks he’s made on his most troublesome charge. Purple and red bruises, there aren’t many indentations from his teeth left, but he still had the red lines on his back. The bruise on his ass that Slade slides his palm over again to get Grant to turn. His seed is leaking out, slowly, and after a moment’s consideration Slade slides his finger over the thin trail and presses back in.

Still so tight – hot and wet, his bruised hole twitches and gives – accepts Slade’s finger and takes in the cum Slade pushes back in. He chuckles at the whine it gets him, nips roughly at the back of Grant’s shoulder and rubs at his lower back.

“Don’t complain,” he chides. Relaxes when Grant does, rubbing his cheek mindlessly against his pillow. He allows himself to hover a few moments longer. Indulge in Grant being soft and sweet and fucking _listening_ , and then gets back to work. Getting dressed is easy enough, as is retrieving his sword. Packing Grant’s weapons is a little more work, gathering up the tech and weapons he has no business having. None of the guns are poorly maintained, and Slade rewards the diligence of that by letting him keep one and his brass knuckles. The knives Slade stores on his person.

Maybe Grant can earn them back. Slade doubts he’ll try – docility only lasts the boy so long. They’re trophies if they’re anything. A reminder for himself the next time Grant inevitably tries to piss him off with a poorly thought out stunt. He doesn’t leave. Removes all traces of himself out of habit and then settles on the edge of the bed. Keeps his gloves off so he can bury his hand in Grant’s hair, trail down the back of his neck and squeeze gently.

“You’re always such a damn headache,” he mutters. Smirks, when Grant hums tiredly and presses up into his palm, leans back into his hand. He lingers, thumbs over Grant’s soft cheek, and doesn’t realize he’s tucking the kid in until he has the covers already pulled over him. Scoffs at himself and pulls away.

He’d taken more time than he’d meant to on this already. There’s a job lined up for him, and he’s got to start managing that soon – but before then he has a few other things he needs to take care of.

Starting with a large purchase of a night club.

Damn kids were a lifelong expense.


End file.
